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Nothing to do with her symptoms of exposure to the elements.
I slip a finger over her wrist, and with my free hand, I gently touch her brow.
She’s warm but not feverish. Her pulse is completely normal, and the little smile playing on her lips tells me everything I need to know.
My patient is fine.
It’s way too early to wake her, and even though my left arm is asleep from her lying on it, I decide I can’t wake her just yet.
My free arm stretches for the laptop, and checking everything again I can see what I was preparing for most.
The eye of the storm is a good forty miles out, with the most destructive winds and rain right over us still, the cell looking like it’s doubled in size since I last looked and according to the forecast, it’s only gonna get bigger before it blows itself out.
If I was alone it’d feel like a curse. Bad luck.
But with Stacey by my side now I kind of feel like the storm is almost a metaphor.
The power of our attraction, our passion condensing right over the little ranger station, and it hasn’t reached its peak yet.
Eventually I feel her moving next to me, stretching her toes under the blankets and making a little mew of contentment before opening her eyes.
Mine waiting to wish her good morning.
She frowns, closing one eye again.
“You’ve been watching me sleep…” she murmurs. “I hope I didn’t—” she almost says, but I let her know she didn’t.
If she was cute last night, she’s adorable in the morning. I want to hold her, kiss her. Taste her all over again, but I remind myself just as quickly that Stacey never was a morning kind of gal, and it’s not even really morning.
Not a proper, get out of bed hour of the morning anyway.
“I need the bathroom,” she murmurs quietly, drifting back to sleep before her eyes both open again.
“I’ll go up with you,” I tell her. “Wait by the door, I mean,” I explain as I help her up.
She seems stiff, bow-legged, and her expression when I ask explains everything to me.
“I’m just fine, Ben. The best kind of ache I’ve had...ever,” she smirks, yawning and stretching before finally letting me kiss her.
“I must look gross. Morning breath,” she protests, but I don’t get that. I see and feel the most beautiful girl in the world.
“I’ll see if the roof’s still on,” I offer, walking her to the bathroom door before quickly scouting the interior of the living quarters of the station.
Seems in one piece.
Should I chance a real breakfast and coffee?
Stacey shuffling back to me, wrapping her arms around me as she notes the unchanging gale outside.
“We should head back down. There’s a whole world of instant coffee and food, if we just add enough hot water,” I tell her, trying to make it sound exciting.
She murmurs her okays and in no time she’s back under the covers and I get to play Ranger, making us both a rehydrated coffee, and eggs with something else from a pouch.
Chapter Eleven
Stacey
“I thought hurricanes only lasted a few hours?” I ask, not minding the distraction or our new surroundings.
Being so close to Ben is way better than anything else and I still feel like I have to pinch myself.
Like all this could still be a dream.
Ben shrugs. “Hurricane John in ’94 lasted a month, technically. But they usually blow themselves out within twenty-four. This one though…” he adds thoughtfully.
“How can a cloud stay in one spot for that long?” I ask, but then I hold my hand up. I don’t want to know. I want my camp coffee and whatever hot goop Ben has in those military style metal tray thingies.
It looks gross but smells great, and it is.
“Not bad,” he remarks. “For survival food.”
I can tell we both silently agree that a month of it would be unbearable though.
Actually, I’d prefer it if this was our only survival food. I’ll never pick at any steak dinner Ben puts in front of me ever again.
I get the feeling, apart from following procedure, Ben’s playing protector too for my sake, which is so sweet.
I can’t tell if it’s my actual heart telling me that or just reflux from so many powdered eggs.
And unlike my dinner from last night, I finish every scrap, suddenly wondering if seconds are allowed during a hurricane.
“We’ve got sweets,” he offers deadpan, reading my mind and looking more animated once he brings over a selection of foil pouches for us to choose from.
We’re not really roughing it. Ben has an electric kettle down here, and even the big plasma screen is still streaming news as well as movies.
For now.
It takes a stack of foil pouches to satisfy a Ben-sized hunger, and I almost keep up before he asks me if he can check some network news, to get an idea of what’s happened overnight.
